


Loyalty

by Causa



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-17 01:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16506473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Causa/pseuds/Causa
Summary: “We’re on hard times, son, and you ain’t working like you used to,” said Dutch, scowling.This has spoilers for an event that happens near the end of the game (before the epilogue.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This contains spoilers for content near the end of the game. Please don't read this unless you've finished the main story missions!

Crisp, clean air filled Arthur Morgan’s lungs little by little as he looked behind him, tightening the reins in his hands.

The group that had been chasing him for ten minutes was no longer visible. He could’ve shot them, but he didn’t want to. Arthur knew his hands might have shaken too much, his eyes might not have been sharp enough. He was tired, had been working too hard for too for long without rest, hadn’t eaten enough in days, and he knew it. Besides, Dutch had told him to stay out of trouble.

Moving like this, it’s not something we want to do too often, he had said.

The humiliation of being thrown out of their camp by a few O’Driscolls was making Arthur push himself too much. The way Dutch looked at him, his dark eyes burning him with their shame and pity, his pursed lips trembling as he silently looked on at him, made him feel, perhaps, worse.

“Don’t come back until you’ve got enough for food for a year,” Hosea had said, smiling at him. It was obviously a joke, but Arthur wasn’t going to show his face to Dutch until he had at least enough for half a year.

He was almost there. But, Arthur thought, riding into town, he needed to rest before he did much else. He hitched his horse outside the saloon and entered it slowly, seating himself at a small round table.

A few moments later, a woman approached him. “Hello, sir. What can I get for you?”

“Whiskey,” he said, not looking up. He was too aware of the scratch on his hand he had gotten days ago. It didn’t hurt much, at the time, when the blade scraped him, or later that evening, when it started to sting, but now it felt like it was pulsing. Or maybe it had been pulsing for a while, and he had just slowed down enough to notice any sensation other than the cold of the wind or the tightness in his lungs.

Hosea has said, before, that Arthur needed to be more careful, that some men had to have their hand cut off due to nothing more than a nasty scratch. He’d thought Hosea was lying to try to get him to listen. He didn’t know if he still thought that now.

“That’s a bad cut, ain’t it? You build houses?”

Arthur looked up at the waitress. Her glossy lips were upturned slightly. Her brown eyes traveled from his sprawled-out hands to his shoulders to his face. She smiled at him. He averted his eyes.

“Uh, no ma’am.”

After a moment, she said, “I’ll get your whiskey, then.”

He watched as she walked away. Her hair was long and blonde and glistened when she passed by the window. It must have been a week since anyone had spoken to him. He couldn’t remember a time someone had looked at him like that.

He turned his eyes back to the cut on his right hand. It was his good hand. If he lost this hand he couldn’t shoot right. He’d be a burden on Hosea, on Dutch.

You’re not going to lose your hand, he thought to himself. How ridiculous. The lack of sleep was getting to him, perhaps.

The woman returned and set Arthur’s drink on the table. She was holding something else.

“Give me your hand,” she said.

He complied instantly. He watched as she wrapped a light brown bandage around his palm, willing himself to keep a straight face as he looked on at hers. She seemed determined. Her expression looked a little like Dutch’s often did.

“There,” she said, setting his hand down gently on the counter. Her fingers brushed his and he pulled his arm back slightly.

“I had a cousin, he got attacked by a little dog or something. Got a couple scratches like that, not as deep. And he died a month later. I reckon that was why.” She crossed her arms. “So, I don’t know if it makes it a difference, but I ain’t known anyone to cover up those things and die from it.”

“Ain’t you smart,” said Arthur. “Thank you, Miss—?”

“Jones. Eliza Jones.”

“Thank you, Miss Jones,” said Arthur.

“You get that cut in a fight? You look like a fighting man.”

“I do?”

“You do.”

She was smiling at him again. He felt warm. He looked around the saloon and saw that it was nearly empty.

“Miss Jones,” he said, and pointed to himself. “Arthur Morgan.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan,” she said, and sat across from him. “You can call me Eliza.”

“Eliza,” he repeated, and drank from the glass in front of him.

“What are you doing out here, Mr. Morgan?”

There was no hostility in her voice, he thought, just curiosity.

“Arthur,” he said.

“What are you doing out here, Arthur?”

He shrugged. “Rest, I guess. I’m on the way to the town over.”

“That’s good, Arthur,” she said, sighing. “Ain’t much worth doing in this town.”

“Then what are you doing out here?”

“I used to have family lived out here. They’re all gone, now, but I’m still around.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry about the family, or sorry about me still being here?”

“Both, I reckon.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “My family weren’t so nice to me, and I got plans to get out of here.”

“What’s that?” Arthur asked, taking a sip of his drink.

“I been teaching myself to read.”

“You _are_ a smart one,” said Arthur.

“I don’t know about that,” Eliza said, smiling, “but I’m going to learn lots, and then I’ll advertise my services to them rich folks’ kids. I’ll be a private tutor.

They’ve got so much money, it won’t be long until I’ve got enough to go anywhere in the world, Arthur.”

The way she said his name made it sound beautiful, he thought.

“I think it’s great you’re teaching yourself,” said Arthur, finishing his drink. “But there are easier ways to make money, Miss Eliza.”

“Well, I was never one for taking the easy way,” the woman said. “This plan I got—I know it’s a good one.”

Eliza stood up. “You want another one of those, Arthur?”

“Sure,” he said, hoping she would sit down again when she brought the drink. She did.

“What do you do, Arthur?”

“Uh, odd jobs,” he said slowly, thinking of Dutch and what he would say if he found out that Arthur told the whole town about the existence of the Van Der Linde gang.

The woman smiled and leaned forward. “Like what, Arthur?”

“Transportation. Deliveries,” he said. “Bounty hunting, sometimes.”

“You must have plenty of stories,” said Eliza.

“Sure,” said Arthur, sipping his drink, “but I’m not much of a storyteller.”

Eliza grinned.

“Where are you gonna go when you get your money, Miss Eliza?”

“Ain’t sure yet, Arthur,” she said. “I’ve always wondered what it’s like up North.”

“I been up North, a little,” Arthur said, sipping his drink. “It’s nice. Cold.”

“I do love the cold, Arthur.”

“Sure,” he said.

“You ever been South, Arthur? I mean, real South?”

Arthur shook his head.

“I want to go there, too. And East. And further West.”

Arthur felt himself smiling.

“You want to go everywhere.”

“I ain’t in a hurry. The women in my family, they live a long time,” she said, “unless they get killed.”

“Is that what happened to your family here?”

“Yeah,” the woman said, her smile fading. “It weren’t too long ago, maybe a year. We traveled outside the city a bit and got ambushed by some bastards. I got out safe, but no one else.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Eliza, sighing. “Like I said, they weren’t so nice to me.”

“Well,” Arthur said, “I wish you luck. I got no doubt you’ll be out of this town soon enough.”

“Thank you, Arthur.”

—

Dutch and Hosea were happy to see Arthur return, but the men’s happiness didn’t make him feel nearly as good as the thought of the woman he met.

He found himself visiting the town whenever he could, talking with her and reading with her, buying and bringing her books, books with stories of the North and the South and the East and the West.

At first he thought perhaps he annoyed her, or she was humoring him, but each day he appeared she would smile at him and say hello and his name. She told him how her family used to own a farm before she had to sell it, how she wished she could keep up a farm and still travel. They talked about what it would be like to get on his horse and ride and ride until they arrived at someplace neither of them had ever seen before, someplace beautiful and exciting and new. He told her about his life and how he could never be with her for very long and how he was a bad person.

“Ain’t no way you’re a bad person.”

“I’ve killed people, Eliza.”

“Who?”

“Killers. Thieves. Anyone trying to kill me.”

“That don’t make you a bad person, Arthur.”

He wasn’t sure.


	2. Chapter 2

“We’re on hard times, son, and you ain’t working like you used to,” said Dutch, scowling.

“I almost died last week, Dutch, getting you that stagecoach.”

“Us, Arthur. _Us._ Getting _us_ that stagecoach. We’ve all benefited from it.”

“Some more than others,” Arthur mumbled.

“What was that, son?”

“Your cut was bigger than mine. I saw what you took,” said Arthur, his voice rising.

“As was fair, son. Hosea and I came up with the plan. All you did was execute it.”

“I—“

“—which was very, very appreciated. You did a wonderful job, son. But you wasn’t the brains behind it.”

“Dutch—“

“Besides, what would you do with more money anyway, Arthur? Spend it on more—more nonsense? More dinners and clothes and things for that girl?”

“Eliza.”

“Eliza. She don’t even know you, son. She’s distracting you. She’s becoming a bad influence. I don’t think I like her.”

Arthur felt his muscles tensing, felt his body grow hot. “You ain’t even met her!”

“I ain’t have to meet her to know I ain’t like her. I ain’t have to meet an O’Driscoll to know he’s scum.”

Arthur stood. “You better not compare a goddamn O’Driscoll to the mother of my child, Dutch, or I—“

“Mother of your child?” came Hosea’s voice from the left. He laughed. “That was fast.”

“Oh, Lord. That’s what’s got you like this, Arthur?” Dutch sighed. “Sit down, son.”

Arthur did not move.

“Good Lord,” sighed Dutch. “Another mouth to feed. Arthur, how could you—“

“You ain’t got to worry about no more mouths to feed, Dutch,” said Arthur, his voice quieter. “She ain’t coming up here to camp. I—“

“Lord, son. What a mess you’ve put all of us into.”

“I ain’t asking for no handout from you,” Arthur said. “But I work hard. I been working hard. I need more money, Dutch.”

“We all need more money, son.”

“They gonna need money. Food. New clothes. Her house is falling apart.”

“Arthur, you know I would never let your baby or its mother go hungry. I would never. They’ve got a place here. But don’t be selfish. Listen to yourself, Arthur. You need to start thinking about your choices.”

“I’m going.”

He heard Hosea and Dutch speaking furiously as he left for Eliza’s town.

—

“I got money,” Arthur said as he entered Eliza’s home. “I got enough money so you ain’t got to work anymore until the baby’s born.”

Eliza smiled. “Great, but where’s my ring?” she asked, hugging him.

“Eliza, I thought you was joking.”

“I weren’t joking. We ain’t getting married until I got a nice ring like Tracy Peterson, and a dress twice as nice, too.”

“That ain’t happening until after it’s born, then.”

“That’s fine,” Eliza said. “We got more important things to buy, anyway.”

She looked at him as he sat down. “I hope you ain’t put yourself through too much,” she said, “to get that money.”

“Nah, it weren’t much.”

“Look at you,” she said, her brows furrowed. “You got cuts all over you and you’re walking funny.”

Arthur looked down. He knew his body would heal. It always did. He’d told her as much, before, but she seemed not listen. The walk from his horse to the stairs of the house had hurt, a little, but he was walking just fine, he thought.

“That Dutch, he works you too hard,” Eliza said.

“No, he don’t,” said Arthur.

“I know you ain’t going to leave him. I know he’s done too much for you. But, please, take care of yourself, Arthur.”

“I will,” he said softly. “I promise.”

“Good.”

Arthur put his arm around her and she placed her head on his shoulder.

“You pick a name for it, yet?”

“Oh, stop saying ‘it,’ Arthur. I know he’s gonna be a boy.”

“You know,” repeated Arthur. “How do you know?”

“I just do,” she said.

“Well, in that case,” he said, grinning at her, “I got the perfect name. How about Arthur Junior?”

They both laughed, and then Eliza said, quietly, “You ever read the Bible, Arthur?”

“I, uh…barely.”

“You know the story of Abraham and Isaac?”

Arthur shook his head.

“Well, Abraham and his wife, they have a son, Isaac. And, one day, Abraham hears from God. He hears God tell him to kill his own son.”

“Good Lord,” said Arthur, “what kind of a god would do that?”

“Ours, Arthur,” Eliza said. “Our Lord above.”

Arthur frowned and drew Eliza closer to him.

“Anyway,” she continued, “God told Abraham to take Isaac up on the mountain and kill him. And he loves that boy, Arthur, but he don’t want to disobey God. So, he takes Isaac up on the mountain, and Isaac asks him where’s the sacrifice, and Abraham says God will provide one. He don’t tell him that he’s the sacrifice.

"They get to the top of the mountain, and Abraham ties his son up. And I bet then Isaac knew what was happening. He’s probably screaming and crying.

"Then Abraham gets his knife. He’s about to stab him, and then he hears God, and God tells him to stop. God just wanted to make sure that Abraham was really, truly loyal to him.

"So, Abraham stops. He doesn’t kill Isaac, and the Lord blesses him.”

“Jesus,” said Arthur, feeling sweat on his face.

“You ain’t like it?”

“No,” said Arthur, shaking his head. “No. What kind of bastard would almost kill his own son? I ain’t—“

“No, Arthur,” she said, smiling up at him. “I mean, do you like the name? Isaac. I like it.”

“Oh,” said Arthur. “Oh, well, I think it’s just fine.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Is his head supposed to be this small?”

Isaac’s head was dwarfed by Arthur’s palm, his body so tiny, thought Arthur, he could hardly comprehend it.

“Yes, Arthur.”

“He weren’t—he weren’t born blue? Or nothing like that?”

“No, Arthur,” said Eliza, laughing. “One of the women I was with said he was the biggest baby she ever saw up here.”

“Is that so,” Arthur said. It was difficult to process her words when he was so focused on the small thing in front of him, his small nose, small mouth, small stomach that Arthur could barely see rise and fall with his small breath.

After watching from afar for some time, Eliza said down beside Arthur.

“I’m sorry I weren’t there,” Arthur said.

“It’s alright.”

“I rode fast as I could. It was so far. I rode for three nights straight.”

“I know. It’s alright.”

“He’s so little,” said Arthur. “I think he looks like you.”

“Do you?” said Eliza. “Well, that’s good. We sure don’t want him looking like you.”

They both smiled and laughed quietly.

“He’s something else, Eliza.”

“I know.”

Arthur looked at her. “Eliza, maybe you could come up to the camp. Just for a couple days. We got a new security system ever since that old thief tried to get us in our sleep. We got traps set up everywhere. It can’t be any safer, now.”

“No, Arthur. I ain’t gonna change my mind. Every time you ask, it’s gonna be the same. It ain’t safe. Not for me and not for Isaac. I ain’t even know how to shoot a gun.”

“I can teach you.”

“I ain’t want to know how to use one.”

“Eliza, we’re about to leave for far from here. I ain’t gonna see you for months.”

“I know.”

“But if you come with me, it won’t be months. It’ll be weeks, at most. Days, I reckon. It—“

“No, Arthur,” Eliza said firmly, keeping her voice low. “I knew who you was when we met. I knew who you was when I chose to have this baby. I ain’t never going to ask you to be different. But I ain’t going to put myself and my son in danger just because you do.”

“Eliza, you ain’t going to be in danger if I’m with you. I can protect you.”

“Ain’t you just said you’d go days without seeing me?”

“Yes,” said Arthur, “but Hosea’s usually the one watching over the camp. I trust him. He’s calm. He’s a good shot. He’s—“

“Arthur. I said no.”

“Sure,” Arthur said, frowning, feeling his body sagging. After a few moments, he said, “Then, maybe you can have one of them photographs made, so I can—“

“We can’t afford that, Arthur.”

“Oh, it ain’t that much.”

“Arthur, I can’t work, not while he’s small like this. Everything’s getting more expensive now. I ain’t know how much longer I’ll be able to eat. I feel like that sometimes.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Arthur. “You ain’t got to worry about food, ever. I’ll starve to death before you miss a meal.

“I got money,” he said. “The money I gave you. Just keep it somewhere safe. And, when I come back, I’ll have enough—we can get you that ring and that dress. I ain’t forgotten.”

“Arthur,” said Eliza, “that don't matter to me anymore.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

Isaac knew his father’s name. Isaac knew his father’s face. When Isaac saw his father coming up the steps, he’d hobble to the door and shout and shout until Arthur picked him up and spun him around.

Arthur thought about him at camp. When he was riding alone, when he was riding with Hosea and the man would point out the beautiful sunset, when he was walking through the street with Dutch, Arthur thought about him. He thought about Eliza, too.

When bullets flew past his face, nicked his shoulder and the sting nearly threw off his aim, when the crate he used for cover splintered into a number of pieces he couldn’t count and he lunged desperately left to avoid his death, and when he shot the man in front of him in the face, watched his brain spread out on the wall and turned to meet Dutch’s eyes, to see Dutch smile in satisfaction, somehow, still, he was thinking about Isaac and Eliza.

Dutch had stopped bothering him about leaving. Arthur had made it clear that, while he wouldn’t be gone for long, his leaving was a part of their life now.

“Maybe next time I’ll come with you and meet them, son,” Dutch said to Arthur as he mounted his horse.

“I’d like that, Dutch.”

“Just don’t be gone too long, Arthur.”

“I ain’t ever gone long enough.”

Three days was as long as he could stay this time. It was a five-day ride. The gang’s latest score was very good; after the next, he thought, he could finally buy a ring. Eliza would be happy about that. He could buy her an entire room full of books, too. She’d be even happier about that. She could pick out new clothes for Isaac. They could finally get their picture taken.

When Arthur saw Eliza’s house from far away, he felt his body begin to warm up in the cold. He could feel the warmth of Eliza’s arms around him, feel the warmth of Isaac’s body as he clung to his leg, laughing and shouting his name. Arthur squeezed his legs together and his horse moved faster.

When he got closer he could see thin wooden crosses stuck in the dirt. His vision blurred. How long had they been there? He jerked the reins in his clenched fists to his chest. Is that why she hadn’t written him yet? He swung his left leg backward, too forcefully, and fell to the ground. How long had it been since he’d been there last? The half-melted snow on the ground stung his face. Had it been four months? He brought his knees to his chest, convulsed, was sick. How old was he? He shut his burning eyes. He wasn’t even three years old, was he? He opened his mouth to scream and no sound came out. Wasn’t Eliza young, too, but not that much younger than him? He opened his eyes and saw flat color and closed them again. Did he really think they’d all see the world together someday, somehow? He dug his hand into the mix of dirt and snow and pushed himself up. How stupid could he be?

He wasn’t going to go in the house, he thought. He had no feeling in his arms and legs and struggled to mount his horse. His vision was still blurry but it seemed that he was moving in the right direction. The horse knew the way back.

At some point, his horse stopped suddenly, and he fell off of it and lay on the hard, cold ground. Some men wearing mostly black hovered above him and punched him and his body moved on its own, left hand clenching itself into a fist and punching the man on the right, right hand settling onto his gun, removing it from his waist, and wrenching it upward, hitting their faces. As they stumbled backward he pulled the trigger two times and felt their warm blood splatter onto him. He climbed back onto his horse. It hurt to keep his eyes open. His horse stopped and he heard multiple voices—he couldn’t tell how many—saying his name. Someone touched his shoulder and his body lurched backwards. Somebody was holding him. His face was wet. His eyes burned. His chest ached. His ears heard some loud, demented moan and his throat felt raw and it hurt.

“Son. Arthur, son. Get a hold of yourself,” some deep voice barked.

“What happened, my boy?” said something softer.

He tried to speak. Strange gasps and cries came from his mouth and, finally, he choked, “My family.”

“Family? What family? We’re your family, son. We’re your family. We always will be. And we won’t get hurt as long as you do your best to keep us safe. Can you do that, Arthur?”

Dutch had that expression, that odd expression, thought Arthur, that was harsh and soft all at once. But he could see it. He could see Dutch’s glistening eyes and his pursed lips and he looked at the man in front of him desperately, hoping if he looked long enough he could find some reason for leaving as long as he did or for staying as long as he had.

He felt someone clap him on the back. “Come on, son. Get it together. Get it together. We’ve got—you’ve got to meet someone.”

“You were gone a while, Arthur.”

“Come on, son. Hosea, get him a drink or something, and then go get John.”


End file.
